


Probably not what friends are for...

by EvaBelmort



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Eye Trauma, Gen, Spoilers for Episode 154
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaBelmort/pseuds/EvaBelmort
Summary: Look, if you want your eyes out, why wouldn’t you ask Helen Knifehands?





	Probably not what friends are for...

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I waited two days and nobody wrote a Helen fic, so I did it...
> 
> Edited for minor typos.

Jon paced in his office. He was hungry (_starving_ whispered a voice in the back of his mind. He ignored it.) and tired, but he was always tired and hungry these days. 

He wanted to talk to someone, but Daisy was sleeping, because she’d started napping in the afternoons, and it hadn’t even occurred to him that there might be something wrong with her because Tim used to do that too, he’d figured it was just depression and boredom. Melanie and Basira were out, and nobody bothered to tell him anything anymore so he didn’t even know if they were chasing up a lead on the Extinction or if they’d gone out separately to get groceries and do their laundry. 

He’d dashed off looking for Martin in a rush of adrenaline, bright with the sudden possibility of escape, that all he had to do was gouge out his eyes and all the stress and struggle would be over. It didn’t sound like that bad a trade, honestly. All his eyes were good for now was cataloguing horrors, and at least without them he couldn’t hurt people. 

Martin had stopped him flat with depressing practicalities, but Jon was just- he was barely hanging on, he and Daisy were getting through one day at a time, and honestly he wasn’t sure how much longer either of them was going to last. If Jon stopped feeding the Eye, would he get weaker and weaker until he died, or would he just gradually lose his mind and turn into a mindless hungry staring thing, like the creature in the old Archive under Alexandria? At least if taking his eyes out killed him he’d be doing it as himself. 

Abruptly he turned, rummaging through the shelves until he found the tape he’d made everyone record a statement on just before the Unknowing. Taking that and the closest recorder, he headed down into the tunnels.

Listening to the recording was strange. Things had changed so much since then, and everyone sounded so much colder and sharper, except Melanie who was actually much steadier and less angry. And Tim, of course. He listened to Tim’s section, then rewound it and listened to it again, and felt sick and shaky. Tim would have hated him even more now, and he’d been right about Jon, hadn’t he? _Instinct,_ he’d said. _You can’t not_. And Jon had protested, but here he was, a monster. 

He listened to Tim one more time, then, clutching the tape in shaking hands, he went to knock on Helen’s door. He heard the soft hiss of a recorder running, and for a moment he panicked, thinking it was the one in his hand- but no, there was a new one sitting near his foot. 

Helen opened the door immediately, and smiled at him. It made his brain hurt, but he smiled back, nervously. “Hello, Archivist,” she said warmly. “Did you want something?”

“I-I-“ he hesitated, then blurted out, “Can I ask a favour?” 

She looked intrigued. Probably. “You can ask. I can’t promise anything.”

Jon nodded. “Right, no, it’s- When you said, that you weren’t really very physical. You can still… I mean, you’ve stabbed me. I have the scars. You could do that?”

She cocked her head to one side. Her hair was a riot of curls, and he found his eyes trying to find patterns in there and dragged his gaze away. “You want me to stab someone?” She asked finally, seeming more intrigued than offended.

Jon took a breath. “Me. I want you to stab me. Specifically, my eyes. Could- Would you do that?”

Helen swayed back, surprised. “Why? The rib, for an anchor, made a certain amount of sense, but- You’re the Archivist. Don’t you need those?”

“The Eye needs me to have eyes.” Jon squared his shoulders. “That’s… sort of the point.”

She went very still. “Will it kill you?”

“I-I don’t know. Maybe? But I have it on good authority that it will sever my connection to Beholding. After that… well, I did get blown up. I might just go back to being an actual corpse without my,” he waved a hand irritably, “patron keeping me alive. Would that be a problem?”

She gave a little echoing laugh. “I don’t have that many friends, Jon. I’m not sure how I feel about losing one. Why are you asking me, though?”

Jon sighed. “I- I don’t know if I could do it, myself. And if I mess it up the first time, I probably wouldn’t get up the nerve to try again. And I don’t want to ask the others, though I’m not quite sure if that’s because I’m worried they’ll refuse, or if I’m worried they… won’t. And… I trust you to go through with it, even if I have second thoughts.”

She hummed. The sound itched at the base of his neck, set his teeth on edge. “What will you do afterwards?”

Jon opened his mouth, then shut it again. What _would_ he do, if he were free of the Eye and the Institute? He thought about his life before, and it was just a quiet blur of mundane activities, most of them solitary. Shopping and cleaning, reading a book on his sofa, going for long quiet walks on weekends sometimes. He hadn’t done much of anything besides work in years, not since he and Georgie broke up. 

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I don’t know if there’ll be anything left of me, afterwards.”

“Well. If you’re quite determined, I suppose. What are friends for?” She gave a little shrug.

Jon stared up at her. He realised, with a sinking twist in his stomach, that he’d been half expecting her to refuse. Maybe Martin was right, and that was why he wasn’t willing to wait for Melanie and Basira, who might actually make him go through with it.

But. No. He clutched the tape tighter in his hand. “I- Thank you. I just need to do one thing first. Ah, don’t- go away.”

Helen laughed lightly, the sound echoing in the tunnel. “Alright, Jon. No rush.”

Jon did rush, though. He knew if he let himself stop, he’d talk himself out of it. Instead, he focussed on the thought that he needed to get this done before the others got back. 

He scooped up the new recorder, ducked around the corner, and then held held it to his mouth. “You need to listen to the tape,” he said into the recorder. “I- I’m sorry for not waiting, but. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be capable of making this choice. I’m not really a good person, and to be honest I’ve only made it this far out of guilt. I- The Watcher’s Crown is soon, though, I can, I can feel it. It’s been two hundred years since Jonah Magnus founded the Institute, and that’s… important. There’s something at the heart of the labyrinth under the Institute, something that Smirke designed for Jonah, and I think that’s why this place is so significant. This place, and the Archivist, and- I think, I _hope_, that it’s too close for Elias to replace me. So, uh, thank you all for not stabbing me more often, I probably deserved it, and… Sorry for skipping out on you, Daisy. I wish-” he sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “Anyway, take care of yourselves, and, if you could, ha, keep an eye on Martin if you stick around, I’d appreciate it. And, tell him I’m sorry, and that I shouldn't have- Just. Tell him I’m sorry. He was… mostly right. And… if this stops the Eye’s ritual, that should be the last of them for a good while, so… good luck with the Extinction.” He hesitated a moment longer, but he’d never been good at sentiment, and there really wasn’t anything else to say, so he clicked the recorder off, and headed upstairs.

Daisy was still napping, so Jon said her name quietly until she stirred, blinking at him dazedly. Jon smiled at her softly. “Hey, the others are still out and I need to go talk to Helen. Can you hang onto these for me? If Melanie and Basira get back before I do, you guys should listen to them, okay?”

She accepted Gertrude’s tape and the one he’d just made with a groggy frown, and Jon patted her shoulder lightly. “It’s alright, just go back to sleep for now.”

“Mmmkay,” she mumbled, tucking the tapes into the crook of her arm. She caught Jon’s hand and squeezed it. “Be careful ‘n the tunnels, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jon said, keeping his voice carefully even. She hitched the blanket a little higher over her shoulder and settled down again, and Jon gave himself a moment to watch her sleeping, her too-thin face untroubled and soft. The he backed away quietly and went back to Helen.

It didn’t actually hurt, getting stabbed in the eye. Helen was careful and accurate, and there was just a moment of trying desperately not to blink as her sharp, twisted fingers came towards his face, then a burst of sensation, too intense for pain, as starbursts of colour exploded across his field of vision. 

Something viscous dripped down his face, and he brought his hand up but Helen caught it before he could touch. “Alright, Archivist?” she asked him, and as she spoke,_ then_ the pain hit. 

It felt like someone had jabbed a burning poker into his skull, and then the pain poured down his spine, spreading out through his organs on the way, wracking his joints, like something was being torn out of him through his eye sockets, and he screamed, and the air caught in his lungs oddly and he started to cough, wet and hacking, choking on blood and ash and the taste of singed plastic and his knees buckled but he barely noticed the slight pain of hitting the stone floor in amongst everything else. 

He could hear Helen’s voice, he caught his name but the rest was more than his overwhelmed faculties could process, and it was almost drowned out by a low whining noise that he could feel vibrating in his own throat but couldn’t quite hear, and he scrabbled across the ground, desperate, until he fetched up against the wall and huddled into it. There was something- The wall felt- His left hand was pressed against cold stone, but the right was on wood, out of place and strangely warm, and he remembered Helen- no, Michael, it had been Michael then- promising him a more pleasant death, and he pushed himself upright on legs that didn’t want to respond, and found the doorknob. 

Helen, very close, said clearly, “Are you sure, Jon?”

“Helen,” Jon slurred wetly, “please,” and turned the knob. He stumbled forward as the door opened, and then it closed behind him. 

The tunnels were silent, empty except for the wet smears of blood and vitreous fluid. 

There was half a bloody handprint on the wall, the other half having disappeared along with the door that had never been in the tunnels below the Institute.


End file.
